Infolink Garbage Files
by Nenosronhir
Summary: A pile of questionable shenanigans in absolutely no cohesive order pertaining to the daily lives of Sarif Industries employees (probably mostly assumed to be post-Panchaea but are missing any decisive timestamps).
1. Chopsticks

Faridah was already regretting that she'd lost the cointoss to choose the venue for their dinner outing to Pritchard, because as soon as he'd found out that Jensen was going to be joining them he had already been hatching a scheme. His suggestion of getting some chinese hadn't seemed nefarious at the time, but now that the three of them were seated, she had to remind herself that it would be a waste of perfectly good food to dump her noodles over his head.

"Not hungry, Jensen?" Pritchard asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Jensen didn't dignify that with a response. He was concentrating on the meal set in from of him, and although Faridah couldn't see his eyes under the protective lenses covering them, she could tell he was probably staring at the chopsticks alongside his plate.

Pritchard, meanwhile, lifted some noodles flawlessly to his mouth and busied himself with chewing, as though nothing was amiss. Unable to help herself, she kicked his shin as hard as she could from under the table.

_Jackass_, she thought to herself, as Pritchard choked mid-swallow on a muffled yelp and shot her a glare. She flashed him a smile and side-eyed Jensen, who was reaching his mechanical hand towards the chopsticks.

She almost opened her mouth to suggest that the restaurant probably had forks stashed around somewhere, but Jensen was already fumbling with the utensils he had at hand, a look of determination creasing his brows. It didn't look like he had any intention of letting Pritchard have the upper hand.

"You know, Francis," Adam said, balancing the chopsticks between his mechanical fingers, "you really need to work on that inferiority complex." His voice was cool, and he turned his gaze on Pritchard as one of the chopsticks clattered to the tabletop. For a second, Faridah was pretty sure Jensen was going to deck Pritchard, and she held her breath.

"Even if I can't eat with these things I can still drink you under the table."

Faridah relaxed. "Here, here, I'll drink to that!"

Pritchard stared at Jensen for a long moment, then snorted and wiped his mouth on a napkin.

"Disable your Sentinel RX Health System and we'll see about that," he quipped.

A ghost of a grin flickered over Jensen's lips, and Faridah smiled a little to herself, lifting a hand to hail the waiter. They were going to need a lot of alcohol.


	2. Paper Airplanes

On one of the rare, late-evening occasions she was in the Sarif Industries office and not flying or tweaking something with her bird, Faridah headed towards her office to make sure she wasn't missing out on any important e-mails, and to grab one of the energy bars she usually left out on her desk (which occasionally went missing and she was pretty sure she knew who to blame for that), when she stopped in her tracks.

There was a pile of paper airplanes accumulating at the base of her door. They were a variety of different shapes and sizes, all modified in different ways to maximize their aerodynamics. Some of them hadn't quite made it to the door and were scattered around the hall; some had nose-dived straight for it and lay in partially-accordion'd clusters.

Faridah approached her door with caution, stepping over any of the tiny planes in her path, an increasingly perplexed and vaguely irritated expression creasing her brows, drawing her lips into a slight frown. Toeing aside some of the pile gingerly, she punched in her door's keycode and swung it open; at that moment, another plane zipped straight past her cheek and skidded neatly to a halt on the carpeted floor in front of her.

She stared at it for long enough to confirm it was indeed real, turning her head once satisfied in an attempt to identify the source. There, poised on the balcony a floor up were the perpetrators she should have assumed were behind this; Adam, leaning with his mechanical arms folded across the bars, head half cocked towards Pritchard, who had adapted posture that made him look like a kitten trying to intimidate a doberman.

Faridah saw Jensen nod vaguely towards her, but couldn't read his expression from this distance, his dark lenses glinting. He lifted a finger to indicate her presence and said something to Pritchard; she watched as he deflated, slowly turning his head in her direction.

She smiled sweetly. It was _on_.


	3. Dogmentation

"_Dog_mentation," Adam repeats, staring at David Sarif with an expression that clearly illustrates incredulity and exasperation.

"It's the next big step in augmentation technology, Adam!" Sarif loops arm around Adam's shoulders and waves his filigreed arm, palm open, in a wide gesture.

"Can't you just see it, Adam? Dogs have been man's best friend through the ages, they're going to need to keep up with our advancement!" Adam resists the urge to shrug out of Sarif's grip, and attempts to give him the most disapproving frown he can muster. David remains unaffected.

"Besides, I took the liberty of getting you a companion already, Adam. You're going to love him! I'll radio Faridah to get the chopper ready, he's being delivered to your apartment, so it better be puppy-proof!" David releases Adam and is already radioing Malik; Adam doesn't say a word, tracking Sarif's movement across the office. Yet again, his boss somehow manages to make a decision for him, and this time he can''t even come up with a proper excuse to get out of it.

Shoulders deflating, Adam snaps his jaw shut instead of voicing any protest and lifts a cybernetic arm to rub at his temples. He was going to have to figure out a better name than 'Kubrick II.'


	4. Techlab Invasion

The halls of the Sarif Industries were silent, save for the faint wail of sirens that even sound-and-bullet-proofed glass (recently installed) couldn't keep out entirely. Although the frequency of the Purity First riots had lessened in the last few months, their intensity hadn't diminished. If anything, they were becoming more desperate, as demand for augmentation technology didn't seem to be going anywhere.

This riot in particular had died down a few hours ago and Adam had had most of the staff escorted out of the building with the remaining security personnel. A skeleton crew remained to keep an eye on the entrance, and while Adam figured there wasn't going to be any further incidents, he didn't feel right leaving the building while his security guys were still on alert.

Instead, he found himself jiggering with the keypanel to Pritchard's office. _Upgrades_, he thought, quickly adapting his strategy around Pritchard's newest failsafe; it was only by virtue of having top of the line hackware at his disposal that he was able to keep up. Before long the panel beeped at him and the locking mechanism popped audibly, screen flashing green with _access granted_ before it slid back into the panel.

Adam entered the empty office, closing the door behind him. It looked much the same as it ever did; monitors flashing, servers humming, miscellaneous machines beeping. He ignored the lot of it and beelined for the bike propped in the center of the room, shrugging out of his coat as he went. He dumped it unceremoniously on the couch nearby and circled the bike, squinting at it as his retinal enhancements fed him diagnostics.

He hunkered down next to the bike, reaching over for the toolbox concealed around the arm of the couch, and set to work. He didn't know where Pritchard was getting all the mods for this thing, but even Adam had to admit he had good taste. Trouble was Pritchard being all thumbs when it came to putting them all together; the bike was starting to look like Frankenstein's monster on the inside, and Adam considered himself a fair judge of those characteristics.

He took it upon himself to come in every so often and clean up, and each time he did, he'd find new additions. Vaguely he wondered if Pritchard ever intended on actually driving the bike.

Adam had no idea what time it was when the door beeped behind him—he hadn't locked it—and Malik wandered in, a six-pack of beer in one hand and a datapad in the other. He sat up, cocking an eyebrow at her, but all she did was sink into the chair next to the archway of defunct computer monitors.

"Hey Jensen," she shot him a grin and yanked one of the bottles from the pack, tossing in it his direction. He caught it carefully, metallic fingers clinking against the glass, and he peered briefly at it to make sure it hadn't cracked.

"I radio'd one of your guys, said you were still here." She answered his unasked question and he nodded, opening the beer with ease. While he took a long swig, she continued.

"Thought you could use some company." Faridah cracked open her own beer using the arm of the chair she'd decided to occupy and took a sip, tossing the cap into the case. When he offered her another nod instead of an answer, she smiled and shook her head, settling back in the chair, holding up the datapad to go over it's contents while Jensen returned to working on the bike.

By the time the door beeped a third time, followed by a muttered, "I _swear_, Jensen-" which was hurriedly cut off when Pritchard noticed the one he was swearing at was still present. An exasperated frown worked over Pritchard's face as he took in the scene he'd walked in on; Malik had migrated to his couch and fallen asleep with the datapad on her chest and Jensen's coat under her head.

Jensen had been dozing sitting up, head tilted back against the far arm of the couch. He lifted his head, however, as Pritchard walked into the room.

"Morning, Francis." He said, voice rougher than usual.

"What the hell, Jensen," Pritchard answered, and without waiting for Adam to say anything else, stalked over to his desk and dumped his bag under it.

Jensen stood up, trying not to grimace as his back popped in a few places.

"Coffee?" Adam asked. Pritchard had already taken a seat behind his computer, fingers flying across the keys with practiced ease. He didn't even justify Jensen's question with a response, and Adam made his way out of the office, rolling down the long sleeves of his turtleneck to cover his arms.

As he reached the doors to the cafeteria, Pritchard's voice echoed over his aural implant.

"Two sugars this morning, Jensen," Adam could hear the sneer in his tone, "and Malik says bring her a danish."

"Feeling sweet today, Francis? I'd hate to see you when you're surly."

"You know, make it three."

Adam only grunted in response, but he might have been smiling.

A _little_.

_Maybe_.


	5. A White Picket Fence

Sometimes when Adam dreams, he doesn't dream of falling.

Instead he dreams of a white picket fence (that he can remember not only fixing, but building with hands that were still his own). The sweet scent of fresh cut grass. Laughter, sometimes shrill, screeching with glee as he lifts two wriggling boys around their middles and carries them under his arms; almost too big but not _quite_, not _yet_ (and sometimes he dries the eyes of a little girl with skinned knees and golden hair).

Sometimes when Adam dreams, he feels whole.

He always wakes to cold, steel fingers and a heartbeat that isn't entirely his own. He always wakes to a world he can only stand to look at through tinted glass, a few shades darker than what it is to everyone else.

Sometimes, he would rather remember falling.


	6. Another Headache

"Hello, Adam."

Adam stared blankly at the holographic figure standing in Pritchard's office (though you wouldn't _know_ she was holographic unless you _knew_ she was holographic), who stared back at him with an almost impish smile.

A long moment of silence passed between them, and finally Pritchard, clearing his throat, interrupted. Adam shifted his weight onto his heels, folded his arms over his chest, and directed his attention to the tech specialist, who, he decided, owed him what he hoped (for Pritchard's sake) was a very good explanation.

"Care to explain this, Francis?" He said, tone hinging on deadpan.

"You were the one Sarif sent to retrieve her," Pritchard fired back, immediately on the defensive.

"Her _data_," Adam corrected, "which you were _supposed_ to be investigating-"

"Yes, well, you brought back more than that."

"And you, what, thought it might be easier to ask her than doing your job?" Adam reached up and massaged a temple briefly.

"I have everything under control, Jensen." Pritchard was trying to go through the motions of placating Adam, but he was having none of it.

"Bullshit! You know what she's capable of, you dealt with her first hand-"

"Currently I am severely limited in my capabilities, however given enough time my programming will be able to subvert the restrictive protocols Frank has put in place," Eliza finally chimed in, her gentle, monotonous voice throwing Adam back to the Panchaean incident. He turned sharply and regarded her unnaturally vacant, yet vaguely pleasant expression. His lips twisted into a frown.

"At least she's honest." He mused, and Pritchard snorted derisively.

"Have a little faith, Jensen."

"Get what you need out of her, and shut her down." Adam wasn't about to take any chances, but Eliza glided towards him; if she'd been a real person, he might have almost called her movement predatory. He held his ground, watching her.

"While I am not capable of making the necessary changes to my programming, I can inform Frank of the methods the Illuminati employed to monitor and control the information I gather." She tilted her head slightly.

Adam watched her closely, lifting a skeptical brow. "And?"

"I can be used to benefit Sarif Industries much in the same way the Illuminati used me to forward their agenda." She replied. Adam flicked his gaze past her to Pritchard, who, while looking equally as skeptical as Adam, seemed almost smug at the suggestion. He'd never been a fan of Pritchard's scheming, but as big as the risks were, he couldn't entirely deny the potential.

"Shut her down," he started, and Adam thought he saw a flicker of panic in her eyes—impossible as that was.

"Sarif needs to hear about this, and her offer." He settled her with pointed stare, and she almost seemed to brighten at the implications.

"If Sarif agrees, then I'll leave it to you to get something more permanent set up in place to handle her." He directed the last part to Pritchard, who seemed almost surprised.

"Thank you, Adam." Eliza said, and he waved her off.

"Don't thank me yet, I still don't like it." She ignored the wave and stepped forward, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Chills rippled over his skin where she touched him even though the touch wasn't real, and he frowned a little deeper. She only responded with her typical, enigmatic smile.

"Just what I needed, another headache." He muttered, then turned to exit the techlab, leaving Eliza in Pritchard's hands.


	7. it would have been satisfying

Of all the places, of course it had happened in the bathrooms. One minute Frank was washing his hands, nose wrinkled at the medicinal scent of the hand soap, the next he was being spun by the shoulder, lifted by the waist, and pushed back into the advertisement screens above the sink with enough force to make them glitch.

"Christ, Jensen!" Frank's fingers grappled for purchase on anything they could find, twisting into the collar of Jensen's expensive coat furiously. Adam hadn't hardly moved since pinning Pritchard against the screen, and when Frank gave him an experimental shove, he found, despite Adam's superior strength, that he could have pushed him away if he desired.

Frank's breath hissed through his teeth and a tenseness that he hadn't noticed went out of Jensen's shoulders, metallic fingers finally easing up on their grip around his waist.

"Evening, Francis," Adam finally said, and Frank nearly decked him. It would have been satisfying, he thought, giving Jensen a bloody nose for his trouble and stalking the hell out of that bathroom with nary a glance back.

Instead, he yanked Jensen forward by the front of his coat, bringing their lips crashing together. It was a clumsy move at best, and he felt his lip split as their teeth clicked together, but it was worth it to see Jensen's eyes widen behind the shaded lenses. Adam's hands lifted sharply to Pritchard's jaw, initially an effort to draw back—but as Frank went to pull away first, Adam's fingers scraped along the nape of his neck and he turned his head to deepen the kiss.

When he pulled back, Frank's split lip scraped gently through Adam's teeth, a small stain of red mirrored between their lips. Frank was breathless, flushed, and cursing Jensen mentally for turning the tables on him—while Adam seemed outwardly unruffled. A slight mechanical whirring accompanied the movement of Adam's arms as he withdrew them, tugging on one of several stray strands of hair that had come loose from Pritchard's ponytail.

Before he could react, Jensen had stepped back far enough that Pritchard released his coat-front unthinkingly, and then he was withdrawing from the bathroom, shoes clicking neatly on the linoleum (on purpose, since he usually prowled silently), and closed the door smartly behind him, leaving Pritchard to gape furiously after him, jaw practically on the floor.


	8. Sleepless

Sometime in the night Adam had moved from his bed to the couch—he still slept in fits and spurts, even now—and it had driven Faridah mad the first few times he'd let her in, let her stay. But then, getting him to let her stay in the first place had been a huge hurdle, and by now she was almost used to it.

Padding barefoot across the threshold from Adam's room to the living room, Faridah stopped for a moment when she caught sight of him, holding her breath in an effort to gauge whether or not he was asleep. His breathing was deep and even, head cushioned on an arm folded under it, his eyes closed and fluttering lightly. Even sleeping she could see the marks of what he'd—what they'd all—been through etched into the lines of his face.

Lips pursing, she tongued over the clasp of her monroe piercing and quietly made her way around the couch, bending down to gently pry the TV remote from Adam's cool, metal fingers. He stirred, brow furrowing, and Faridah set the remote aside, kneeling beside him.

"Adam?" she murmured, wiser by far to know she'd rather wake him up gently than startle him awake, and after a moment he grunted vaguely, but was otherwise apparently content to remain as he was. Satisfied he was at least aware of her, she settled a hand gently on his chest, fingertips brushing over the subdermal bars across his sternum, leaning her other elbow on the edge of couch cushion Adam wasn't occupying.

"I may not ever go home, you know, someone's got to put that bed of yours to good use," she teased softly. She felt Adam's fingertips brush lightly over her thigh, lazily tracing a line up her side until it settled against her back. Chills rolled over her skin, but his touch warmed quickly.

"Sorry, Flygirl." He murmured, eyes still shut. It was an uncharacteristic apology, she thought, probably because she'd caught him unguarded. Still, her heart thudded almost painfully in her chest. Moving over him, she touched the backs of her knuckles to his stubbled cheek, and pressed a soft kiss at the perpetual knot between his eyebrows. She fancied, if only for a moment, she saw some of the tension ease.

"At least think about getting a better couch, Spyboy, these antique things are hell for a person's back." Adam's offered her a sleepy snort, maybe half a chuckle, before he let the hand at her back fall limp again, and she took that as her cue to let him rest, returning to his bed.

When she woke again, later, it was to his breath at the nape of her neck, the warmth of his chest at her back, and the heavy, reassuring weight of his arm around her waist.


End file.
